The Bolivar bulletin. [volume] (Bolivar, Hardeman County, Tenn.) 1865-1888, 1887-05-13
A BOY PROPHET.
Little Docs Sign Of the Golden
Love Vine.

1.-Two AAAGs
When Doc first came 10 live with us
It was in the early spring. He was a
pitiful-looking boy. He was a little,
puffy-looking chap. with a pale face.
small, bony arms, and short, weakly
looking legs, and rather sicSly-looking,
frizzled-up, straw-colored hair on his
head. There was no personal beauty
about Docs face and figure, and yet he
was not unusually hard favored. He
was commonplace. Only that and
nothing more. Only a pea in a pod
where dozen peas of similar appear
ance reposed. Only little wire-grass
boy, with not one redeeming feature
about him except his eyes. They were
only remarkable for the pathetic ex-
preston that fingered there. What lit
tie light that ever flashed from them
was of that sorrowful cast that one OBJ
serves lingering on the horizon after a
days rain has closed in a humid sun
set
Doc lost his mother That was the
tie that bound us to him. She was a
commonplace wire-grass woman, but
in her uncultured soul dwelt the same
traits Of maternal love and cherishing
tenderness that are supposed to illum-
inc the high-born souls of those grand
DANES whose white hands have never
battled against hard and evil fate for
the simple necessities of prolonging ex-
istence. She had nourished and cher
ished her little boy, as only a fond
mother can nourish and cherish weak
and fragile child. Ever on the watch,
she had stood between him and all the
wild streams of adversely that ragged
about their humble log cabin in the
desolate barrens.
When she died Doc took it to heart to
a greater extent than any of us thought
possible. He had been such a puny,
peevish, pettish sort of a boy that we
thought that only his selfshness could
suffer We were mistaken. Doc was
older than his age.
Well 1 remember how mother used
TO toast the crispest bits of brown corn
bread. softened with the fresh, sweet
butter, and how she used to put in a
big lump of that brown mush sugar in
his coffee, so as to induce the little fel-
low to eat.
''You know his ma is dead, she
used to say, land we must try to keel
him from missing her in every way We
cam
And we were learning. We were
being taught the grandest lesson il
human lore-the creed of usefulness.
We could not get him to join us very
often in any play. He was too weak
But when the afternoon sun shown
through the riffs in the great pine forests
he would creep out on the sunny side
with us and we would adjust our spOrts
to his strength. Sometimes he woulC
look up from his play, and with hi
eyes full of tears, he would exclaim
''My ma is dead! / can't never SCI
her no more!' Then he would sol
and moan as if his little heart wOulC
break, and am not ashamed to SAL
we would cry too. might not tn,
good Lord take our dear mother, tooP
we asked ourselves.
Ahl my sainted motherl Thy love
lighted brown eyes have been CLOSED
to earthly scenes for many summers
They closed your poor, toil-worI
hands above your cold, still heart
long, long time ago, and the tall pine
have shed from their dropping bow,
the purest distilled dews of HEAVIER
above your lonely grave, and yet il
my dreams / see that face often anS
again, and / never accomplish n goo'
deed or am guilty of a bad one bu
what yours is the first name tina
sertoTloaN A
may have ten thousand friends, ever
two we'll beloved wives, but never bu
one mother. Blessed be that hol.
name above all earthly treasures mos
sacred and longest cherished.
AS the spring days grew warmer ant
the timid wood violets peeped forth OIL
banks where the sun fingered longest
our protege grew more robust. Their
was even a faint tinge of blood in hi
pallid cheek after a short walk abou
the plantation.
Deeper green grew the woodlands
The rugged pines even touched them
selves up with a few gay tufts of
softer tint, and from their queer bios
SONS fell showers of gold dus
that covered the still surfaces of tn
water ponds. The trailing jasmin
covered itself with golden bloom. an,
the honeysuckle and dogwood blossom
made the swamps and lowlands radian
with gay hues and redolent with deli
cate perfume. Birds sang among tn
bursting buds on the apple tree, AM
the blue arch of heaven was glide,
with the fine gold of the life-gluni
sunlight.
Our sports and pastimes would seer
funny to you. We went fishing nights
1t was only half a mile to the creek
and on a little bluff that overhung tn
dark waters we could build our camp
fires, and then cast our crude tackle i
the gloomy eddies where the fireligh
played in fitful waves of light and shad
ow. Doc did love TO fish. We woul
dig in the trash heaps for muckworm
or skin the pine logs for sawyers, an
then we would carry his tackle for him
and walk slow, and help him across tn
sloshes, and when he would catch
mudcat we would say it was a big, fin
fellow.
Doc was not an unappreciative boy
He sang those queer, old-fashioDe